False Emotionshotel room- 1821.98 miles from home @ 7p,listening to sad beats and melodies in my ears,looping, unchanging, New England cold seeping in the glass of the window,not the cracks and pushing against the heat w/ a WPI pen,pushing and scampering quickly accross eggshells.Poems from "pathways" underneath,reminiscent of museums from the timeless past,from the afternoon's aimless meanderings.Like at school.Only 1821.98 miles away and colder and the beat slows.I miss the melody. But here I can press repeat,not like on these fake emotions. These don't stop at all.I could not press repeat if I wanted to.Only on frustration.Subjective loneliness through poetry, from climbing stairs.I'll have come back down by tonight.7:38- I lied before. Fake emotions. Too clever.That'll need a rewrite (yeah right).The cold on my feet, waiting for the melody.3:16, 17, not here yet. I was writing on the wrong paper--3:48! ah, here it is. More pathetic than it really is,because I know subjective
Sloth"I'm a piece of shit, and that's why I can't do this.And if only I was not such a piece of shit..."*And I'm turning up the guy screaming in my headphonesand thinking, I don't want to hear this, I don't want to hear this.And why am I holding in my shit in every childhood memory?Why was I not taught any self-worth, why was I notshown how to get mad at people; the only person I hateis myself.I tried cutting myself and smoking a little.I never got the mutilation out of it, only the art.Always music and writing, do I find art in miseryor misery in art?Life is not worth it. Too lazy to break my spirals,either by giving up or jumping in. Congratulations,Mom, you bore a martyr. The easiest way out is toaffect people through failure, not accomplishments.How did I become too lazy to live?Hello doctor, I've never been this deep in the loop before,and I'm starting to become frightened. I can't tell thedifference between the surface and the depth. I can't see a thing.The best I
Tidbits and ShrapnelMy joy does not come from living,But from thinking about it.Thoughts of sullen beaches andExotic characters - in novelsThoughts of poetic astrology andMethods of ideas and intentions.I turn everything I see into art,Like a drug addict appreciates theSubtle, intricate messages of a lava lamp.The phenomenon is much easierWhen, through mild schizophrenia,Everything that's artGets turned into what I see.People are poetry, books areSimple paintings. ConversationsAnd thought and experience are music.My eyes are slate grey/blue likeNew York under the rain, unless-They're the greenery under a fluorescentStreet lamp at 5. am, the rushingWoods in a BMW commercial.My joy is in sitting on a lakeIn Minnesota (or Hemingway),Catching fish with dad.Because thinking is boring afterYou've thought of every thingIn the Universe already that day.My life is lost in literature, andJoy will be found in my experiences,Not my thoughts alone.Poetry is notLife.